she wants more of my blood
after I gave her
three whole vials the last trip
into the office.
the rubber band, the needle,
the distracting conversation
so that I don't pass out.
we need more, she says, standing
there with her hands on her hips,
wearing her white doctor's coat,
and a smile.
but I hate needles I tell her.
and I don't know if I can make
it on no food or coffee for the
next four hours. quit being a baby,
she says, stamping her high heel.
now get in here and roll up
your sleeve. we need to test
you to see what's up, how long
you're going to be around.
i'm not investing in someone
with bad blood coursing through
his veins.
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